Just Another G8 Meeting
by PeacockBlue
Summary: A compilation of some of the more unusual G8 meetings. No country is innocent, and all of them have caused havoc in some way. Chapter one - All Germany needs to do is find something to deal with his headache caused by England and America's most recent fight.
1. England

The G8 meeting was being hosted by Germany, and he already had a headache. Why was that, do I hear you cry? Simple; England and America were at it again. Not in the way that France would like, with his obsession with 'love', but in a genuinely antagonistic argument where each tried to verbally crush the other. On top of that, every time it looked like the pair was going to settle down, the aforementioned third nation would do something that would set them off again. Arschloch.

"That is it!" An enraged voice shattered America's current rant. "I have had enough of you, you ingrate!" A bright white flash lit up the meeting room and, when seven of the eight assembled nations had finished blinking the spots away from their eyes, all of them – minus France, who had seen it happen once before – stared in disbelief.

Instead of the stuffily dressed figure in a suit they all knew well, in front of them was a side of England they had never seen before. He wore a blindingly white tunic that was gathered at one shoulder and fell asymmetrically from mid-thigh to lie just level with his knee. In one hand was a star-tipped wand and, flaring out from between his shoulder blades was a majestic pair of snowy-white wings. His build, slender for a man even on a normal day, had become more effeminate and France was eyeing his bare legs appreciatively.

"Dude… What the hell?"

"Feel the wrath of the mighty Britannia Angel!" he shouted, levelling the wand at America and flicking it to produce a dazzling beam of light that – somehow – bounced off America and rebounded onto the caster. Another flash later, tinted blue this time, and England had gone through his second change in under five minutes.

Now standing in front of the nations, all but two of them eagerly watching what promised to be better than any TV show, was England, but as he had been centuries ago. His short build was masked by heeled boots, he wore a richly decorated scarlet coat and his billowing shirt had more ruffles than Switzerland's pyjamas/Austria's cravat _[delete according to preference]_. On top of his longer and even more unruly hair was a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a single large feather. At his hip were belted a sword gleaming with use and an old-fashioned pistol. He lifted his head and in his emerald eyes shone a light that brought back unpleasant memories for many in the room. This was not England.

This was the British Empire at his strongest.

Now, convention dictates that, in this sort of scenario, the one out of his time should look around, bewildered but usually hiding it with anger, ask where he or she is and then freak out and/or attack someone.

The British Empire dictates that convention can kiss. His. Arse.

He strode over to France and scrutinised his face. After a very tense five minutes, he turned away from the Frenchman, irritation in every line of his body.

"How far am I into the future?"

"Dude, how couldn't you know?! It's the twenty-first century!"

He span around, coat flaring with his movement. His sword was out and at America's neck before the other knew it. "Who are you? Answer quickly and with the bare minimum of words."

"It's me, America!"

"My colony? Look at you, you're all grown up!" he lowered and sheathed his sword before patting the 'colony' on his head and ruffling his hair fondly.

"Angleterre."

"What do you want, frog?" He was not happy about the interruption of his little familial 'moment'.

"How long will you be 'ere?"

"How annoyed was my future self, and what did he use to make this happen?"

By that point, Germany had long given up any hope of getting anything useful done. Russia had not moved from his seat and was looking at England, wondering if building empires was back 'in'. Italy was trembling under a desk, surrendering for all he was worth, Japan was not _visibly_ affected, and I feel like I'm forgetting someone…

"France was egging you on while you were arguing with America about his plan to fix our economies. Again." Germany had yet to find a headache reliever that could counter the stress of meetings. It showed.

"Oui. And you pulled out l'Ange de Britannia, but the spell rebounded on something."

"I went Britannia Angel in front of you?! I give it at least a week before I can return to my own time."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"If I would take that form in front of a man as notoriously lecherous as you, I must have been enraged beyond all reason. I still haven't forgotten last time."

"Lecherous? I am _le pays d'amour!_ L'amour is something to be spread around, non?"

"Along with venereal disease."

"Why do you wound your frère ainé so?"

It would seem to be a basic law of nature that, if France and England are put in a room together for any length of time, they start bickering, while most nations nearby will start to place bets.

"Would everyone SHUT UP?!"

France obediently stopped talking and scurried back to his seat. England, however, was unaffected and turned to face Germany with the full force of his glare aimed at the other blond nation.

"I am calling this meeting to a stop! We will get nothing done until England returns to normal." That said, he chased after Italy, who was trying to get away from the imposing empire. The nations left behind to gather up their papers could hear him shouting at the shorter man as he ran down the corridor. Russia left quietly and Japan bowed and made his excuses too, leaving three – no, four – nations in the room.

"Is that Canada, France's little colony?"

"_Y-yes,_" he whispered as loudly as he could.

"My, haven't you grown?! And your behaviour is so much more polite than America's! Where am I going to go wrong with that boy?"

"Canadia, bro! When did you get here?"

"_I've been here all along…_"

British Empire cut across the 'lowly colonies' and addressed the only 'fellow empire' in the room. "What do I need to know so I do not stand out?" Before France could open his mouth, he added "Be warned: if you give me bad information, I shall turn you into a pincushion and **I will enjoy it.**"

"Britain! Why not ask me?"

"Silence, colony. The empires are talking."_[1]_

And that pretty much set the tone for the rest of the week. England, when the G8 had first been set up, had given to Germany a list of rules that instructed the blond nation on how to deal with him should his magic go awry at a bad moment. It detailed events ranging from changing the sandwiches provided into songbirds to a full-blown apocalypse. Each scenario had two ratings; how dangerous the situation was, and how important it was that the instructions were followed to the letter. Under 'swapped with past self', rather than a single danger rating, this had a sliding scale that ranged from 'mild nuisance' to 'run like a bloody Italian' and a footnote stating that it depended on both the age and the mood of his past self. The number determining the importance of following the instructions exactly was bolded, highlighted, underlined and in bright red ink.

Not even the full on apocalypse had all of that.

None of the nations were allowed to mention America's independence or, indeed, the breakdown of the British Empire in the twentieth century. To many who had not known him at the time, he was arrogant and aloof and to those who he _had_ known, he was merely arrogant but, except for America, they were used to that. At that time, so had most of them been.

America wasn't quite sure what to make of this England. When he had been a colony, Britain had been his big brother and almost a father to him. Now he was an adult, and independent, and he wasn't allowed to say so or Germany would give him a super-ultra-boring lecture that would drone on for_**ever**_ but he couldn't go back to worshipping the ground England walked on like he had done in the time this new – or should it be old? – England had come from. On top of that, England seemed to be trying to treat him like he had when he was a kid, but the first time he had tried to cook for the two of them, expecting a delighted America surprised at the thoughtfulness shown by the Empire, the superpower had paled, run away screaming and then called France over citing 'emergency code black'.

It was, however, only when England tried to send him to the naughty step that America put his foot down and called Germany.

"I quit! Make France or Spain look after him! I can't take it any more!" Before Germany could reply, he threw the phone back on the cradle.

Halfway through his packing, England shouted to him that the 'communication contrivance' was making an 'infernal noise' again. Sighing, the nation who had been volunteered to babysit his ex-big brother picked it up.

"'Sup?"

"Allo, Amèrique! Why has Germany ordered me to get over there?"

"I. Can't. Take it any more! He's treating me like I'm a little kid again! You have to save me, France!"

"Relax, relax. Grand frère is coming."

"I owe you, dude. I gotta go – my stuff won't pack itself! Bye!" He hung up, then turned back to the bomb site he called a bedroom. "Now, what next?"

Poor America; he had only managed to last two days. When France arrived to relieve him of his duty, the European nation was greeted by an enthusiastically grateful tackle-hug.

"I thought you'd never arrive! 'Kay, thanks bro! Bye!" He picked up his bulging suitcases, threw them effortlessly into his car, jumped in and zoomed off.

The replacement empire-sitter walked into England's home calmly and immediately turned towards the sitting room. As expected, the time-displaced empire was sitting in a plush armchair, reading a fantasy novel and sipping a cup of tea.

"Morning, frog. What brings you here?"

"You drove America away with your incessant mothering. He _is_ over four hundred years old now, you know."

"That may be, but as long as he _acts_ like he is still in double figures, I shall _treat_ him like he is in double figures. Will that boy never grow up?"

"I don't think so, mon ami," he replied cheerfully, not backing down from England's glare. "You are always grumpier when you are hungry. I'll make us some lunch, oui?"

England grumbled and turned back to his reading. France smiled; over the centuries, he had learnt to read the black sheep of Europe very well, and the refusal to admit his love of the Frenchman's cooking was, quite frankly, adorable. He strolled into the other country's kitchen and started to prepare a light lunch for the two of them to share. Humming quietly to himself, he began to look through the fridge for edible ingredients.

"My, my. You've practically become domesticated," A voice purred from the doorway.

Hiding his surprise, France turned to face him. "Well, _someone_ has had to keep you from starving over the centuries, mon cher."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

France set some new potatoes on a chopping board and began to cut them expertly into small rounds. "You know as well as I do. Now, could you fill a pot with water? These was parboiling before je les fais sauter."

Grumbling about 'bossy frogs', the empire complied and set the pot down on top of the stove. "I shall be reading a novel through in the other room."

France smiled; he knew the prickly nation would be drawn back to him once he had begun to cook.

France endured the British Empire's company with good humour for another five days. England _was_ arrogant and power-hungry, yes, but hadn't they all been at that point? He himself had been similar, if not worse, so he could not complain too much.

Still, he did feel some sense of satisfaction when he saw just how high England's paperwork had piled in his absence. None of it was urgent – the nation in question's boss had been told that he was 'unavailable' – but there was still a lot of it.

The two of them had settled into a little routine fairly quickly. France would wake about an hour after England, go downstairs and unlock the kitchen before cooking a breakfast that _couldn't_ be classed as a weapon of mass destruction. England was grumble and half-heartedly complain about having his kitchen 'stolen' from him and then watch France suspiciously while he did the paperwork he had one of his aides send over. Lunch was usually cold and quick, then England would drag him outside to do physical activities, complete with much taunting about the loss of his reflexes and fine-tuning in fencing, horse riding and other such things. The day he was forced into sailing on the lake was a nightmare.

Despite his own status as an ex-empire, France had never been entirely comfortable on any sailing ship with fewer than three masts and/or at least fifty crewmembers. He had certainly never travelled with any less! Due to this, it was understandable that he was eyeing warily the tiny little boat England was sitting in, a challenging smirk plastered all over the sort-of-empire's smug face.

'How bad can it really be?' the empire-sitting nation asked himself before gingerly stepping into the tiny two man – er, nation – boat.

Half an hour later, cold, wet, stiff, covered in weed and sore all over, France had his answer. As if to add insult to injury, his 'captain' remained bone dry and appeared to be laughing at his discomfort.

"If you find this so funny, you can make your own dinner, mouton noir!"

When England was finally allowed back inside his own kitchen for the first time in three days, he found that France was not so angry he could not think. Anything that could be used for cooking had been safely padlocked away. As he 'expressed his displeasure' (read: threw a tantrum) France smirked at the screen and congratulated himself for the speed and efficiency with which he set up the cameras.

Tossing another kernel of popcorn into his mouth, he changed to another angle of the irate nation's struggle.

Who would have guessed that it would be so difficult to put together a simple chunk of bread, lump of cheese and an apple?

"Should be some time today," England announced over breakfast a couple of days after the sailing incident.

"Quoi?" The French nation was very rarely at his conversational best first thing in the morning, and was often fairly slow on the uptake. Add to that the physical exhaustion of being more active in the last five days than he had been since the last major war – and not in a _good _way, either – and it was understandable that France had no idea what England was referring to.

It took more energy to keep a time-displaced empire amused for an hour than the average toddler for a week as France, rather painfully, found out.

"I should," England repeated himself more slowly and clearly, "Return to my original time at some point today."

France exited his chair and fell to his knees. "Merci, Dieu! Merci de me permetter d'échapper de ce cauchemar!" _[2]_ His hands were lifted to the sky and a blissful smile spread across his face.

A cough with many emotional undertones broke through his rapturous thanksgiving. Moving into a more normal pose, he fixed England with a slightly defensive glare.

"You're about as low-maintenance as Austria. Do not deny it."

'_Plus que ça change,_' France thought as he and England were enveloped in the familiar dust cloud that accompanied all of their brawls.

The paperwork session was unchanged, lunch as normal as the two could get, much to France's dismay. The afternoon torture session had not been called off either. This time, England had planned a 'gentle' ride through the small forest on his estate with, in France's opinion, two of the most evil excuses for horses the island nation could have found.

His discovered this five minutes into their ride when the empire's mount, without any warning, sped off down a path on a sharp turn, right before his horse decided to follow suit and he was left hanging on for dear life as Newton's laws of motion kicked in.

It was moments like this that reminded France just why he had not looked back once cars had become a viable means of transport. Horses were unpredictable, often uncomfortable and usually had a mind of their own.

Apart from some uncomfortable (for France) yet apparently hilarious (for England) encounters with various trees, bushed and low, thin branches, the ride the empire had dragged the two of them on passed without too many significant event.

An hour after they had returned, France was sitting down in the armchair he had adopted as his own for the time being to recover from his ordeal, glass of fine French wine in one hand, romance novel in the other, when it happened.

"Oi, frog. I'm back."

_Enfin! [3]_

_[1] I admit it; I wrote this entire story for the sole purpose of using this one line. So shoot me._

_[2] "Thank you, God! Thank you for letting me escape this nightmare!"_

_[3] At last!_

_**Okay, time for a short rant, but hang on 'til the end! I find it really annoying when people abuse basic grammar rules in foreign languages (especially French) when writing. I have lost count of the number of times I have screamed at my computer screen "No! The adjective doesn't agree with the noun!" or "Wrong gender, wrong gender!" Go a little further than Google translate.**_

_**Just one of my little pet peeves, rant is over. Now, I had an idea. There was a purpose to this rant, believe it or not. I would like to offer my services as a French translator (phrases and short sentences only) for things like this. Face it, Hetalians, it's seen the most in this fandom. Admittedly, that's because there's the most **_**opportunity**_** in this fandom, but still… I don't want to be the only person doing this, so if you're bilingual – or more than that! – why not offer your help in reading over other people's work? It will save you the stress of tearing your hair out in frustration over an awkwardly constructed sentence, or the wrong verb used.**_

_**Thanks for reviewing, Blue out.**_


	2. France

_**I have been writing three chapters for this at once and no, I'm not saying who the other two are. Maybe if you guess right, you'll get a sneek preview of it?**_

It was one of those typically contradictory English days; a patch of purest blue here, a sulky grey cloud loitering there, and the sun alternately shining brilliantly on the ground below and scurrying behind a cloud, plunging the streets into a chilly shadow.

England himself was taking a brief pre-meeting stroll through Westminster Palace _**[1]**_, sorting and calming his mind before the trial he would soon be going through. It was his turn to host the G8, the first time in a while despite the fact that the countries themselves meet more often than the human delegates did. Russia had been taking more than his fair share but no-one really wanted to call him out on it, especially when he had _Belarus,_ of all countries, bringing around tea.

He passed by a window and leaned on it, elbows propped up on the ledge. He looked out at the Thames and the city – _his_ city – that had grown up along it. Although he looked back with a warm eye on the past, he would never tire of seeing how his people had grown and changed with the centuries, changing him as they did so.

"Allo, Britain!"

And the moment was lost.

"What do you want, frog face?" Couldn't that tosser have just left him alone with his thoughts?

"Am I not allowed to greet an old friend?"

Apparently not. If he were not a country, England would have been asking himself what he had done in a previous life to deserve France as his best frenemy. "Not when he's enjoying a peaceful moment alone, you're not." He turned to face the other nation. "What do you want, anyway?"

France took that as an opportunity to spill out his full tale of woe, culminating in a request to be shown to the nearest food preparation area. England sighed and, with a reminder that he most certainly was _not_ doing this for France, he was doing it for himself so he would not have to see him begging for food every five minutes, took France to his personal kitchenette.

He did not trust any one else to make his tea right, okay? It had to be done perfectly, at the correct temperature, being stirred exactly eight times clockwise. After almost a century of pouting and refusing to work in which many of his Prime Ministers gave up on him, his boss at the time simply gave in and had a small kitchen installed at Westminster.

Not only did it get the country running again, but it also meant that they knew where to put the strongest fire protections.

"Here. Use anything you want."

France dove into the small fridge, uncapping and sniffing several items. England turned away and glared at an innocent patch of floor. This would, later, prove to be a mistake.

Ten minutes later, France and England were leaving for the meeting. France was carrying a small bowl of fruit and a glass of something that appeared to a strawberry smoothie of some sort. On the way, they met Japan and Germany was already sitting in his seat when the three arrived. France sat down, bowl and drink set carefully in front of him. Germany frowned at the apparent lack of professionalism but France ignored it, beginning to tuck into the array of fruit he had 'liberated' from England.

He paid no attention when the rest entered, one by one, except to protect his snack from those who he thought might swoop in to 'pique' _**[2] **_from his bowl. Once they were all seated, England called the room to order, cutting short the fight promising to break out between America and Russia; after he had taken the Crimea from Ukraine, America had been more and more willing for conflict with Russia.

A condensed version of the previous meeting's notes was read out and, before England could get further than two minutes into his planned speech, America leapt in with an attack on Russia's democratic process, or lack thereof, according to the superpower.

From long experience, England knew hat there was very little that could stop America when he started on one of his Freedom rants. Even the promise of one of those greasy heart-attack-on-a-plate burgers would do nothing; he would grab it and continue, spraying half-chewed chunks over those unfortunate enough to be in range.

A vaguely green flash lit up the meeting room, catching every nation's rapidly fading attention. France had, upon finishing his fruit, downed the 'strawberry smoothie'. Sitting in his seat was now a very confused frog with France's jacket draped comically across the top of its head.

"Oh, he didn't…" England groaned, head cradled in his hands. "France, you idiot. That was an experiment!" He had run out of the usual glassware, it mostly having fallen victim to America's cat when they visited him a month or so before. As a result, when he had dug the old recipe out, he had had to decant the potion into an empty bottle. England had made some alterations to the original recipe, so he had planned to use the spare time afforded between meetings to develop a counter to it. Thanks to France, that plan had been thrown out the window.

"_What 'as 'appened?! Que-est qui c'est passé?"_ He jumped up and down, frantic and eventually landing on the table.

"You drank an experimental potion, France. Would it really have killed you to _ask_ before you took a drink from an unlabelled bottle?"

Five nations looked at him; all they could hear from the newly frogged Frenchman was a series of croaks.

America, jerked out of his Freedom Rant ™, stared at the frog. After his mind caught up with the situation, his mouth closed, only to be re-opened almost immediately to ask what had happened to France, and why there was a frog sitting in front of where the Frenchman had been.

"Actually, America," England studied a fascinating patch of wall, "That frog _is_ France."

"What've you been – _Ghost!"_ he paled and dived under the table, curling up into a ball and whimpering as the French frog started hovering, as if being held by a pair of invisible hands.

"_But I'm not a ghost,_" Canada sadly looked at the empty space that had contained, up until a few seconds previously, his southern brother. In his hands, taking Mr Kumakichi's place, was the frog that had so disrupted their bi-annual meeting.

As a few of the assembled nations gathered around the trembling America, trying to coax him out from under the table, Canada turned the frog to face him and began speaking in rapid French to it, fading in and out of view as he became more and more worried. France began croaking back, also in French, which made Canada even _more_ distressed, causing his visibility to improve more than it didn't. As it became more possible to see and to hear him, England noticed that, although France was responding to Canada, Canada was simply continuing to panic in French, despite his _papa_'s reassurances that he felt fine.

Although he would rather allow fifty cups of tea to go cold than admit it, England could speak French, and speak it well. It was not difficult to understand and follow both sides of the freak-out. Canada was clearly very worried about France, and he had been England's own at one point…

"Canada, the fr- _France_ is fine. He accidentally ingested a potion that he was not supposed to touch." England collected the French frog from his ex-colony. "I propose that the meeting is adjourned so that I can find a way to fix this."

Sounds of general agreement were made, papers were shuffled, tidied and put away, and then the nations, save England, did whatever it was they did after the meetings, that none of them particularly enjoyed, finished. Britain had to get France to his home so he could consult with the fae.

Leaving Westminster, he received many odd looks, mainly from tourists and those who had been there for under a year. Picture this, if you will; a visually young man with untidy hair and unusually large eyebrows carrying an official-looking briefcase in one hand and scowling at a frog held in the other. He would occasionally mutter things like 'your own blood fault' to said frog, inviting no small amount of anxiety from some of the more senior civil servants who worried for their country's (already questionable) sanity.

The personified nation, however, managed to reach his car without getting waylaid. Once he was in and driving away, the mutters grew to fully-fledged shouting. If someone had had the misfortune of listening in, the one side of the conversation – mainly very strong insults – that they would have been able to understand, well…

It was an argument. One the speaker was losing, and badly. Eventually, he gave up, reached over and tuned in to Classical FM, raising the radio's volume high enough to drown out the surprisingly loud croaks of the livid frog on the passenger seat. The remainder of the drive was passed in silence, until he pulled up to his house in the London suburbs, one of the many properties he owned.

Briefcase out, lock car, up to house, in. Tie loosened and kettle on, England could not help but feel that he had forgotten something. Just as the kettle began to whistle – old fashioned, but nostalgia was in his nature – he remembered France. He left the kettle still shrieking at an ear-piercing pitch and all but sprinted out to his car, keys in hand. When the door was opened, England stopped. He had never before seen such an expressive face on an amphibian. Said frog did not say a word – there was no need – but continued to look at the one responsible for his predicament with the accusing stare that he had been perfecting in the rear view mirror for some time.

"I'm sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry," England chanted to his forgotten oldest 'friend', who still had yet to speak. Knowing him, France was filing this away underneath 'Things To Guilt England About Later'.

He carried France inside his house, put him down, finally poured his much-needed cup of tea and sat down, facing the interruption to his routine.

"You know, scientifically speaking, you should add the milk first," France broke the strained silence.

"My answer has not changed since the last time you told me that, _frog_."

France winced, an odd movement to see on a frog. England had been very… passionate in his reply; France had not fully healed from the bruises – unintentional, but painful nonetheless – for a full _day_ and, as far as he knew, England had done nothing to his advanced healing powers that day.

The silence persisted until England finished his tea and set the cup delicately down on its matching saucer, fixing France with a calculating stare. "I can only think of one course of action for this-" he waved a hand at France's body. "Consulting the fae."

"It was your potion that made me this way! Surely you 'ave the antidote!"

It really was bizarre, England reflected, hearing France's voice coming from a larger than average frog. Somewhat ironic, too, considering his favoured nickname for the country in question. "I told you – it was an experiment!" He got up from his seat. "Wait for me there." He took the dirty crockery through to his kitchen. France turned to follow him with his gaze, eyes briefly slipping down to appreciate the other nation's _derrière_. No matter what his form was, some things would never change.

"What are you doing?" What France could hear was not confidence-inspiring, given that it was _England_ in a _kitchen_, and there was an awful lot of clattering going on out of his sight. Either the clattering drowned out his panicked question, or he was being ignored, for no reply was heard.

The eyebrowed nation walked back in, carrying a bizarre range of objects in his arms. He carefully set it all down and began to move his furniture out of the way. He pushed aside a rug, then retrieved a long stick of chalk. On the exposed floorboards, he began to draw an intricate circle.

As summoning circles went, however, this one was fairly simple. Not ten minutes after having started, stubbornly ignoring his 'guest', England was ready to place a candle in the centre and light it. France, having been on the receiving end of the ex-pirate's best Death Glare one time too many in the set-up process, remained silent. England picked up the only unused item in the bundle; a leafy pile that gave off a faint, clean scent. As he crushed and burnt some of these leaves, the smell of mint overwhelmed the previously airy room and the small flickering flame of the single candle grew to outline a fiery circle.

"Angleterre?" He was, quite naturally, very worried by this magic. After all, the _last_ time England's magic had impacted on him, it had robbed him of his beautiful body and his _sexy hair_!

"Don't move. You might disturb the magic's currents."

"Britain! What's wrong? Why did you need to call me?"

The voice was entirely unlike what France would imagine a demon's to be; high –pitched and exuding cheerfulness. What accompanied the voice was truly strange. It was something like a rabbit, but it was a bright green and had small, feathery wings on its back. England waved his hand, palm parallel to the floor, and the candle flame went out, the portal disappearing instantly.

"Flying Mint Bunny, it's so good to see you!"

"Wait – th-they're _real?!_" France all but keeled over in shock. England and his 'magical friends' was something of a running joke among the nations. Apart from the so-called 'Magic Trio', nobody believed him about their existence and, to be frank, most considered the other two to be of dubious sanity where their 'craft' was concerned anyway.

"So you can see him now? It must be a result of the magic in your system. I suppose that, technically, you're a creature of magic now…"

"A – a _what?! _Non! Je refuse de le croire!"_**[3]**_

"So, Flying Mint Bunny, you see my problem. France, today, drank some of that experimental potion and, well, you can see the result."

The Flying Mint Bunny swooped in and circled France, visually examining him in such detail that France felt somewhat violated. He alighted on the table top and gave the frog a careful sniff. "I can smell your magic radiating from him," he told England. "His body seems to be causing some sort of power loop."

"I used a couple of Uni's mane hairs to, ah, boost it a bit," England admitted.

"What else did you add? Where's the list that you made?"

As any good scientist would, England kept meticulous records when he was experimenting. He strode out of the room, leaving the two green creatures of magic to their own devices. For ten minutes, they sat in stiff silence, studiously avoiding eye contact. France's head was churning; a magical creature? Him? And of all he could have been, he turned out to be a _frog_. He could not have been something cool or sexy, like a phoenix or – or a merman? But no; he was stuck as a small, slightly slimy frog. Clearly, Life hated him. As a result of this self-pity party, when England returned, waving a mildly grubby piece of paper, it was to the wholly new sight of a pouting frog.

The Flying Mint Bunny fluttered up to his friend and read through the list.

"There!" England jabbed the list with a finger. "The firebird feather will have interfered with the breakdown process in conjunction with the Silver Lily leaf! And with the unicorn hair-!" he turned to France. "It seems that you're not going to turn back naturally. We're going to have to find a cure."

France was _brimming_ with confidence in his fellow nation's abilities.

Not.

"There _is_ the traditional magical cure-all…" the Flying Mint Bunny piped up.

"Oh? Do I need to get my wand?"

In the tone one would use when talking to a small child, or a particularly slow adult, the Flying Mint Bunny sighed, "England, England, England. You know as well as I do what I'm talking about."

"What _are_ you talking about?!"

"I'm _trying_ to tell England that the quickest way to undo this is to kiss you."

In all his centuries, France had never seen such an interesting shade of red on England's face. As the object of his scrutiny opened his mouth, France's instincts kicked in and, too late, he clapped his hands – paws – _front feet _over where he hoped his ears were.

It seemed that he had found the right spot; the explosion was slightly muffled by what had been his hands. The individual words could still be clearly separated from each other, but were not at ear splitting volume. His ears may ring for an hour or five, but he would still have his hearing more or less undamaged.

He risked peeking one eye open to see whether he could judge by the other's flailing just how much longer he would be shouting for. Eventually, the explosion fizzled out and the only human-shaped person in the room stood, shoulders heaving, panting from lack of air.

"Fini?" _**[4]**_

England glared at him. "Shut up, frog. Not. A. Bloody. Word."

France took this to mean that he was embarrassed by having had to have had the 'traditional cure-all' spelt out for him and that he did not want to hear what would normally be France's reaction to being ordered to kiss. It certainly wasn't an expression of his distaste for the act; kissing was the _least_ of what the two had done in the past together, _ohonhonhon…_

But wait!

What if this shape was repulsive to England? What if he could barely bring himself to look at the Frenchman, let alone touch him? He could be stuck like this forever!

"Noooooo!" he wailed. "D-do do not look at me! I am 'ideous!"

A large drop of sweat grew on the back of England's head. "W-what are you talking about?"

"You think I am ugly, and the idea of kissing me makes you sick! I 'ave lost my beautiful body and no-one can ever love me again!"

Apart from some froggy sniffles, silence reigned.

"I – I'm going to call Norway." England exited the room, almost running away from the overemotional houseguest, thanking his lucky stars that he had forgotten to take his mobile out of his jacket pocket.

"I'll stop by tomorrow, see how you're getting on!" the Flying Mint Bunny called to his friend and fluttered off.

France, on the brink of tears, chased after England, hopping as quickly as he could. By the time the French nation reached his host, he was deep in conversation with, France assumed, Norway. He seemed to be getting more irritated by the second though, so perhaps it was…

"Look, Denmark, I. Don't. _Care_!" England snapped. "Just put him on the phone! Now, or so help me…"

Oh, so not Iceland's puffin, then.

England was pinching the bridge of his nose, always a danger sign.

"Norway! At last! I have a… situation and I could use your advice… no I haven't -! Look, just get over here as quickly as possible, okay? … … … Fine, I'll meet you at Heathrow _**[5]**_ tomorrow."

One of the perks of being a national personification was being able to take any form of transport without the need to book in advance. Although, with most countries, it required an in-depth explanation to their boss so the privilege would not be abused, for some nations – an example being the Magic Trio – all they would have to do is say certain words or phrases that would lead to said boss needing a drink. For the Magic Trio, all that was usually needed was the name of one of the other two members. If, for some reason, that failed to work, it would be followed up with 'needs my help with', 'has an issue' or 'is summoning/fighting the demon offspring of _'. In mental self-preservation, they would be sent off to wherever it was they wanted to go so long as whatever it was stayed _in its country of origin_.

England hung up, put his phone down and turned to France.

"I am not kissing you! Not because you're a frog, but because I don't like you in the least!" Twin patches of scarlet flared up on his cheeks, causing France to smirk to himself.

"What is the 'arm in trying? The quicker I'm back to myself, the quicker you are rid of me, no?" he bargained. As obnoxiously as he knew how, France puckered up, all the more disturbing because a frog's mouth is not supposed to look like that.

"Sod off!" England growled and swiped at the frog, sending him staggering, off-balance but otherwise unharmed.

_LineBreakLineBreak_

The night passed relatively uneventfully. France proclaimed that he would rather eat _flies_ than his reluctant host's cooking, thus earning himself the silent treatment until he was brusquely ordered to stay in the living room overnight. An order he promptly ignored, as England found out when he turned around, half naked, to find a certain frog on his pillow enjoying the view.

"Don't stop on my account!" France chirped while England was wrestling his pyjama bottoms on.

"Why – You! – Arrgh! No! Just-!"

"It is nothing I have not seen before, _mon ami_,"

Those last two words, despite being fairly innocent in and of themselves, sounded utterly filthy coming out of that damn frog's mouth. He could make _anything_ sound dirty without trying.

England weighed the options in his head. Chase France around the room until he's out; pretend to give in, then throw him out on his little green arse; or _really_ give up. He yanked his pyjamas up as high as they could comfortably go, before putting option three into action. Although option one was the most attractive, it had been a long day and, without a blood sacrifice (anything from a few drops to several pints) summoning tended to be rather taxing on energy. _**[6]**_

"Fine. Stay there!" he snarled at France. The traces of toothpaste still around his mouth, along with his _oh_-so-pleasant attitude put the other nation in the difficult position of trying not to smirk at the multiple comparisons he drew to rabid dogs. He did not entirely succeed.

England did not need to say 'shut up or die'. His face did all the talking, and hasn't a picture always been worth a thousand words, anyway? France, faced with this promise of certain and very painful death, no matter how temporary, very wisely stayed silent.

After that, the night passed peacefully.

"**WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON THERE?!**"

The morning, however, not so much.

Waking up early, rarely enjoyed even in the best cases, was made infinitely worse for Britain, first by the slimy feeling on his skin, then by opening up his eyes to meet those of his 'guest' staring directly back into them. His front paws were planted on either side of his nose and, as he shouted, a back foot slipped into his mouth, sending the amphibian scrabbling to keep his footing. When he finally pulled himself together, England plucked the collapsed frog from off his nose and dropped him on the bedside table. He looked at his clock and groaned. Still another three hours until Norway's plane was due to land.

_LineBreakLineBreak_

England had held open his bedroom door with a pointed glare until France left. Once washed, dressed and somewhat mentally prepared to face the world, he made a 'breakfast' that had France going greener, a great feat considering his current hue, and defended it violently against France's comments. Eventually, he snapped that, if it was that bad, there were aome perfectly good flies hanging around the bins.

Suffice it to say that war nearly broke out between the two. The hostilities only dissolved when England threatened to lock France in a tank while he picked up Norway from the airport. France gave up, but sulked the whole way to Heathrow.

Unfortunately, they appeared to have set off in perfect timing for Rush Hour, leading to the unexpected discovery of England's road rage.

Of course, he already knew that England could spout a near endless flow of words that would blister any sailor's ears, but in the last century or so, it had become difficult for him to link the infamous Captain Kirkland with modern-day Britain.

Not any more.

He winced as they were cut off by a taxi; was that even physically possible? He doubted it, even if the cabbie was as flexible as the 'pays d'amour' _**[7] **_had made it his business to be.

France sighed in relief as they finally pulled into the airport's car park. Before he switched off the engine, England cracked open a window.

"I can't bring you with me – imagine the looks I would get! Besides, you might get lost." That said, he locked the temporarily frozen frog inside his car and went off to find Norway.

The plane was a good half hour late and, despite the traffic slowing them down, he still had to wait for twenty minutes as his flight number seemed to crawl up the Arrivals board. At last, it had reached the top. England felt the other nation set foot on his land and got up from his seat, ready to get the Nordic and get out.

"Lukas, good to see you. How are things with your brothers?"

"Matthias is as annoying as ever, and Emil still refuses to call me 'big brother'."

"Younger brothers can be so ungrateful. Do not even get me started on Alfred!" His laugh sounded quite forced. "Come on; my car's this way."

"What was the matter you needed my help with?"

"…It's in my car."

When the door had been opened, Norway took one look at the suspiciously quiet amphibian and gave an emotionless look to England.

"Don't look at me! He brought it on himself! – And I didn't change him, before you say anything!"

_LineBreakLineBreak_

Once they arrived at England's suburban house, the three headed down to his basement. Norway walked confidently, having taken part in rituals there before. France was carried, trying not to shiver.

He had heard stories about what went on in that room. Apparently, he had held Russia captive in there and bent him to his will. It was said that his revolution was the result of England letting him go. _**[8]**_

As they went further down the steps, France began to struggle. "Non! Laisse-moi partir! _**[9] **_Don't make me go down there!"

England reflexively closed his fingers over the panicking frog, who then began to throw himself against the bony cage. "Do you want to return to normal or not, frog? Quiet down or I'll drop you." On England's palm, France huddled down, looking more like a kicked puppy than France, no matter what his form, had any right to. "Here's the recipe he drank." The grubby piece of paper was shoved at Norway as they reached the final step.

"You know I specialise in cast spells, rather than potions. Why did you call me over?"

"…I had a disagreement with Romania and I am still waiting for an apology." He looked away from his friend. "Anyway, that's not important. Do you have any ideas?"

"Well,"

And the two magic-users fell into a conversation of which France could understand only one word in five. If they had been fans of technology, like Estonia, they would have included technobabble like 'critical diagnostic' and 'auxiliary transistor'. Part way through, as if to make it worse, the two slipped into Norwegian, one of the few languages France had not really bothered to learn.

Some time later…

"Frog face. Oi, France!"

France jerked awake, jumping several times his own height and blinking rapidly.

"Norway's going to try to reverse this with a spell."

"What if it doesn't work?"

England refused to consider the alternative option. Without reply, he picked up France and carried him over to the table where Norway, inscrutable as ever, was waiting. Once dropped on the table, France looked around himself. He was sat in the centre of a plain chalk circle and, as he was preparing to make a break for it, froze upon meeting Norway's icy glare.

The Nordic warned France not to move. Confronted by the magic user's curiously emotionless stare, he slowly shifted his weight back to the centre. He turned his head to attack England with the full force of his most accusing eyes. England blushed guiltily and looked away.

"This is to diagnose whether or not I can do anything. Our magics have different resonations, so I may be able to find a loophole." He mumbled a few words and the chalk outline lit up. When the glow faded away, leaving France almost blinded, the chalk outlines around the frog had disappeared.

"Well?"

"Nothing I can do."

_LineBreakLineBreak_

After Norway left, muttering something about Denmark, beer and Iceland's puffin with a barely visible wince, England collapsed into his Corner of Woe. Despite the room being brightly lit, the shadows flowed out to cover the floor. France, still on the table top, craned his neck and leaned closer. Once he had determined it was safe, he hopped down and approached England with all due caution.

"Come to laugh? I can't solve even the simplest of problems."

France remained silent.

"This is all your fault."

Still, patient silence.

"I'm not kissing you."

"Please, Angleterre! I need to get back to my usual sexy self! Don't you want me to leave?"

"…" Two desires warred inside England. First, the desire to be rid of France. Second, the desire to avoid kissing France.

He stayed hunched up in his Corner of Woe for most of the day. France kept whining at him, stopping only for snacks raided from his reluctant host's cupboards. Slowly but surely, he was wearing down the prickly blond's defences. By evening, England's patience and considerable stubbornness had both been shattered.

"If I kiss you, will you shut up?!"

"Of course!"

England plucked the frog off the floor by the loose skin on his back. He squeezed his eyes shut and pursed his lips, trying his hardest not to think of what he was about to do. He flinched away as he felt the briefest of pressures and released the much warmer skin. Within the space of a few seconds after the 'kiss', England found himself with a lapful of Frenchman.

"Merci, Angleterre!"

And then came said Frenchman's attempt at giving a 'proper' (or, in England's opinion, 'highly improper') kiss, diverted by England turning the other cheek, for once in his life.

"Sod off!" he shouted, eyes snapping open. As soon as they had opened, however, the island nation threw his arm up across them. "And get some bloody clothes on, you git!"

_**There we have it. That was long. My personal headcanon behind the kiss is that, by kissing, the magic recognises that the caster of the enchantment has 'forgiven' the victim for whatever he did, thus reversing the spell/potion/thing.**_

_**[1] Westminster Palace = building/location of the Houses of Parliament**_

_**[2] 'piquer' = to steal, nick, 'borrow for life'**_

_**[3] No! I refuse to believe it!**_

_**[4] Finished?**_

_**[5] For those of you who don't know, Heathrow is the main airport in England, near London.**_

_**[6] The FMB had severe haemophobia.**_

_**[7] Country of love**_

_**[8] Just to say, this is rumour and the actual event (accidentally summoning him to deal with the Axis rather than the demon he wanted) was just built up.**_

_**[9] "No! Let me leave!"**_


End file.
